Under the Arcade

To you, sheltering under the arcade,

Welcome to the Storm Post Office. This is a private letter on warm ocher laid paper, its lyrical brush script drawn out in long sweeps. A dark green colonnade is screen-printed in a moody tone; a few tropical leaves are cropped by the edge, a tiled facade repeats its pattern, and a corner of blue river shows. The cream address cartouche is handwritten and stamped with teal cancellation rings. It is November 1990 in São Paulo; the rain has not come yet, but the arcade has already gone cool.

A poet far from home wrote of missing it: "My homeland has palm trees, where the thrush sings; the birds that warble here do not warble as they do there." — Gonçalves Dias, Canção do Exílio (1846)

Small things come back most easily when we are somewhere else. Stand under the arcade a while, and do not hurry on. Whatever you remember, write it to us.

Waiting under the eaves,

Storm Post Office

November 1990 · São Paulo